


The Knights in the Stories

by Southbroom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, One Shot, Sarcasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 09:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11597937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southbroom/pseuds/Southbroom
Summary: On the road down to King's Landing, Jaime drives Brienne up the wall with his non-stop banter. Pre-Harrenhal. Can be interpreted as a missing scene from the TV show.





	The Knights in the Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short pic that came to mind. I am basically just playing around with Jaime and Brine's dynamics. This fic is a kind of "warm-up" to future Jaime/Brienne stories I want to write.

It was that time of the day when leather boots had been on his feet for so long that they were carving blisters into his heels. 

 

“ _My Lady_.” he started. He could feel her eyes rolling, even though she was taking long strides before him, doing her best to ignore his existence. 

 

“I would like to point out that it is nearly nightfall, and my boots are eating my feet raw. When do you plan on setting up camp?”

 

He was met by a sharp tug of the rope that encircled his fingers. 

 

“I would say _us_ , but you never do free me from these restraints.”

 

“That is because you are untrustworthy, Kingslayer.” She tied him to a tree and dumped the heavy load of supplies on the earth. Without so much as a glance in his direction, she walked away from him.

 

When one spends so much time with only one person, even someone as blatantly dull as the wench, one does pick up a lot about that person from pure observation. Jamie knew, for example, that the she-knight had a deep affection for animals. It was evident the solemn (or _more solemn_ _that usual_ ) way she skinned rabbits. 

 

The wench liked to keep to herself, and she seemed overly loyal to oaths and promises and Catelyn Stark. He always spoke of Catlyn Stark as if the sun shone out her behind.

 

One of the oddest things Jamie had noted about the wench of Tarth was her obsessive compulsive to-do with her hair. Each night, before they settle down to sleep beside the campfire, Brienne would plat her stringy hair into plats. He assumed it had something to do with getting curls the next morning - at least that is why he thought women slept in braids. But certainly not Brienne. She undid her plats each morning and combed it out with her stubby fingers. It there was water readily available, she would wet her scalp too - anything to get it back into its state of stringiness.

 

Jamie also knew that the beast would only tie him to a stump during mid-afternoon if she wanted to climb something for a lookout point. Or if she wanted to take a piss. It was almost time for her afternoon piss. 

 

When she returned to him and the stump, her face was red from climbing the hill just to their left. He had been right on the former.

 

“And? Where are we going now?” he enquired.

 

“East of the Kingsroad.” she said, folding her map and placing it inside her breast plate, “And then too an inn.”

 

“An _Inn!_ ” He chuckled until he remembered that she had no sense of humour.

 

After seventh moons of captivity by the Starks and at three being dragged across Westros by a mercurial she-knight, Jamie Lannister had forgotten what a bed felt like. Or decent food, ale and wine… And _women_. Women that actually resembled, well, women.

 

“What if I am to be recognised? Not boast or anything, but I am on of the most famous men in Westoros. And on multiple occasions I have heard the singers-” 

 

He felt a rag hitting his face.

 

“Right. Am I to keep silent too, my lady?”

 

“I would remind you that I am no-one’s lady, but its not like you listen to anything I have to say in the first place. Do shut your mouth, Kingslayer.” she warned, “And I might persuade Castorson to you feed you tonight.”

 

“Castorson? That is rather an ugly name. Who in the seven heavens…“ he pondered off. “Oh, is this the innkeeper? It must be the innkeeper. Oh, this is _en-ter-tain-ning_. My lady, I do apologise for my attempts on you when it is has been darling Castorson who claimed your heart. How long has it been since you have seen the man? I do hope the reunion is sweet. It will sure be something to see a smile instead of a scowl of your homely face.”

 

He felt the flat part of her sword hit his neck. “Shut it.” she said barbarically, drawing the rag over his face. “I might buy you a meal if you behave.”

 

 _Like a good dog_ , he wanted to say, but Jaime kept his tongue. For once, he was too desperate for decent food and a warm bed.

 

With Jaime still blindfolded, the wench lead him to what he assumed was the inn. He heard the voices of drunken smallfolk and even a singer who sang immensely off pitch. Brienne went inside and told him to wait outside.

 

“Whatever you want, wench, I shall give you.”

 

“I told you to remain silent. And stay.”

 

“Can’t really go anywhere when I am tied up, now can I.” he whispered when she was close.

 

“Keep talking and there’s no sup coming your way.”

 

“Yes, _mother_.”

 

A woman accompanied Brienne to escort Jaime to a stable outside the tavern. 

 

“Do you mind asking me who he is?”

 

“I do.” The wench grunted. “I would tell you if I though it would not put you and your uncle in danger.”

 

“Is it the war, Brienne?” Her voice sound so small, Jaime thought she must be more of a girl than woman.

 

“It is best you do not know him. It is too much trouble.” the wench said distastefully, “When you bring him his sup, slide it under the door. Don’t say a thing because once he starts talking, he never stops.”

 

Jaime felt the wench push him to the floor. The landing was softer than he expected. _Hay._ He groaned regardless.

 

“And you will sleep out here as well? Uncle has a spare room. I am sure he would not even charge you for it.”

 

“I will be fine, Elyl. I have slept without a roof for quiet a while now. Leave me a moment alone with my prisoner. Tell Jaryd he can fetch me a bucket to wash up with.”

 

Jaime heard the footsteps disappear as the wench lifted the cloth off his head.

 

“Will you buy me wine?” he asked, “If there’s no red wine… a cup of ale will do. Bitter, preferably - like your personality - no the sweetbeer that soldiers so love to drink.”

 

“You will get whatever I get you.” she commanded. “Do not make a commotion and defiantly not try and escape. Castorson has hounds.”

 

“I will try my best.” he said weakly. He grinned his best smile only to see her face knit up. 

 

She left by shut the stable door and locking it, and soon it was just his own raging head for company. And a mule who chowed hay in the corner of the room. 

 

He groaned loudly, thinking that it would all be worth it once he is back in Cersei’s arms. All the of the wench’s overcooked food; the dull conversation and the agonising days of travel would soon be over.

 

His sup did eventually come. The hands that posted his plate under the door seemed to fear whatever was inside, for they scurried away quick as the wind. 

 

“Beware the wench’s prisoner. He is so fearsome, no one can speak his name.” he told the mule.

 

He roared at the animal. He expected it to be started, but it only looked at him, wearied by his presence.

 

“So scary, I am.” he mumbled and set his plate onto a crate. “Fear the Kingslayer.”

 

Porridge with pumpkin and cooked fish. Not exactly something he would have picked out. The wench seemed to purposely want to torture him. His water came in cup that smelt of ale, but had non of the substance in it.

 

When night fell, the stable went dark. No one had bothered bringing him a light and Jaime soon grew bored in the darkness. And then came the cold. There were no large windows in the room; only hundreds of grooves between the loosely packed stones for the wind to sweep through. He snuggled into some loose straw in an attempt to get warm but only found himself irritated with all the scratching. 

 

Eventually he just moved to the centre of the room and spread his limbs out wide like a starfish. After so many months of being tied up and caught up by people he still did not know how to entertain himself. He hummed along to the singer’s chants and tapped his feet impatiently.

 

His father had always called him restless. _Can’t take offensive if the words are truths_ , he supposed. He was restless - always fidgeting and messing about.

 

“ _Sit still, boy. If you don’t stop playing the fool I’ll send you to the Septon.”_

 

He could not help that he hated sitting still. Cersei was always good at the things he was not. He supposed why they were so good together - always completing each other. She was good being attentive in conversation sitting up straight and talking to their father’s subjects. She also just had a way of staying engrossed during their lessons, even if she couldn't care less. She could rehearse all the houses their lords and their sigils; and whole Chapters from the Seven Pointed Star, where Jaime found the walls more interesting.

 

But Jaime found other ways to impress their father. All that he ever really found release in was beating people bloody with swords. It was a good thing that he had a knack for swordplay because Jaime would have been useless doing anything else.

 

He smiled at a memory that popped into his head. He must have been nine or ten, a few years before he left Casterly Rock for good. He gotten up early and snuck off to the stables to steal Ser Arthur’s stallion. Jaime’s master-at-arms only allowed him to ride ponies and mares, but he was eager for too many things when he was young. He had always been rebellious by nature.

 

Jaime stole the stallion - a giant thoroughbred that Ser Arthur named Thunder. Jaime galloped on Thunder by the seashore until it was long passed breakfast time, but he could not have cared less. The feel of the beast below him and the sand spraying as he flew up and down the beach lifted his mind into a surreal state of euphoria. It was completely worth the scary admonishment from his father, the complaining from Addam that he’d been left out and the overbearing squire duties that followed. In fact, Jaime once believed he was alive for moments like that.

 

Now, however, the only thing that kept him going was the though of his sweet sister. How he ached for her curls and her dancing eyes. Her sharp tongue and narrow-minded determination. He missed the nights when they stood in each other’s arms, swaying from side to side and whispering sweet things in each others ears. He wandered what she was doing at that very moment. He pictured her hosting a sup in her private quarters, exceedingly annoyed by the ladies of the court, the bunch of lackwits they were.

 

 _Sister_ , he imagined writing to her. _I am lying on some innkeep’s floor. With a mule._ He imagined her grinning at that. _But it is all well. A giantess is escorting me across the Riverlands back to you.”_

 

“She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair! He licked the honey from her hair!” He heard the singer sing, followed by a roar of laughter. He wandered how the wench would fit into a crowd of drunken men, all trying to win her for the night. The idea amused him.

 

It was not long until she trekked into the stable, her armour clanking as she moved. Jaime was surprised the big cow did not tell him to move out the middle of the room. He thought, perhaps, that she assumed he was asleep. 

 

That thought was confirmed when she strolled over to the corner of the room and set a candle onto the table. Slowly, she undressed herself. Jaime raised his eyebrows to the sight. A small voice told he to close his eyes for the sake of politeness, but a larger part of him sneered: ‘ _What honour, Kingslayer?’._

 

The wench without the cover of boiled leather and mail looked significantly odd, he thought. Overly wide shoulders and concaving breasts. Everything about her was rather unsightly. All mismatched proportions and sun spots and _breeches_. He wandered if he’d ever even seen a woman wear breeches before.

 

Yet without a scorn on her face, there was something else the wench pricked inside him. Not the kind he had with Cersei. No, the Maid of Tarth sparked no reaction like Cersei would have inside of Jaime. The wench had the coiled arm muscles of blacksmith and the brawn of some brute on a battlefield, yet she remained pale in the candlelight. Her eyes dark and troubled. More freckles on her arms than stars in the night sky. _Maid and Warrior both,_ he thought. How obscure they looked together merged into one being. It fascinated him.

 

And then she started her ritual again. She wet her head and set to braiding again. Short little plats - barely longer than her stubby little fingers. Once her hair was up and out of her face she sighed deeply.

 

“Why do you do that?” he asked, genuinely interested. 

 

She did’t jump or anything, but Jaime could tell the wench got a fright. She sat up in the chair and glared at him. He smiled suddenly, felling very pleased with himself that he could turn her mood so quickly.

 

“You weren’t asleep?” she snapped.

 

He shrugged.

 

Then a different kind of panic ran over her homely face. She grabbed her tunic and pulled it over her head, covering the thin white shirt she wore after she had finished washing up. She showed her emotions so plainly that Jaime knew she would never last a day once they went down to King’s Landing. 

 

“And now?”

 

She narrowed her eyes and then turned away from him. _Oh please, I’ll find the mule more pleasing than I would you,_ he wanted to mock her, but he did not. Maids were strange, sensitive creatures. He remembers when Cersei was still a maid, however brief that period of time was. But the Maid of Tarth was shier and more uncertain than Cersei Lannister ever was. 

 

“No, not like that. Defiantly not _you_.” he said, not kindly. 

 

He expected another reaction out of her but she stared plainly at the floor. A few solemn moments passed before she stared to polish her armour. He soon found himself bored again, fiddling with the creases in the robe he wore.

 

“You still have not answered my question, wench”

 

She sighed, “If you think I have anything to say to you, Kings-“

 

“You’re even annoying yourself when you speak like that. All I want to know is why you braid your hair every night. And -and then go to the ends of the earth to made it all straight again in the morning?” Jaime chuckled, “Oh, don’t give me that look. What am I going to do with this information? Kill my own nephew King? Push another Stark child out a tower?”

 

The wench threw her shoulder plate against the floor with a thud. “That was not amusing.”

 

“Everyone has done unforgivable, rueful things in their lives. The difference between me and your darling Lady Stark is that the worst things that I have ever done seem to always become _songs_.”

 

“I have never, nor will I ever push an innocent child out a window.”

 

“Neither would I have!” Jaime uttered. 

 

“But you _did._ ” she said sourly. 

 

He never would have done something like that. What he did to Brandon Stark was extreme, even for the honour of the Kingslayer. But in that moment, in _that_ moment it seemed his entire life was balancing on the tellings of a little boy. And the panic he felt in his chest caused him to do something without properly thinking it through. A small thought with dire consequences.

 

“Now there’s a bright wench.” he smiled sardonically.

 

She looked at him with disbelief and then continued to polished the metal until the bronze shined in the candlelight. The wench was like everyone else in the world - cruel, judging. No one knew his full story - not even his sweet sister - yet they treated him as if they had been present in Aerys’s throne room, in the Broken Tower of Winterfell.

 

Jaime rolled into the straw again, a futile attempt to keep warm and fall into sleep. His mind was too awake to have anything of the sort. He tumbled and turned until he had nothing to do but focus on what the wench was doing. Her stubby fingers ran up and down the length of her sword. 

 

“If you must know, the braids make me think of my mother.” she said plainly.

 

She surprised him. _Was that a peace offering?_ He sat up from the straw, “I never really knew my mother.” he paused, “My brother imp killed my mother. Or at least that is how Cersei explains what happened. In truth, I doubt a babe could do something like that - even less so a maimed one. But only fools cross with my sister. I am not one of them.”

 

She wench was doing terrible at looking uninterested in what he was saying. 

 

“All my life I wandered what she was like. I remember the idea of her, not so much anything about what she looked like. But the servants told me she was beautiful, like my sister, they’d say. I doubt Lady Lannister was as cruel as Cersei is. The softness in Tyrion and myself must have come from somewhere. It never came from my father, that is plain. 

 

“Tell me, Lady Brienne, of your siblings. Is your family as much a jape as mine?”

 

“I do not have any.” she stated.

 

“But you did, once.” he guessed. “Died on the birthing bed?”

 

She glared at him.

 

“Now there must be more to the story.” he prompted, but she remained silent. “What am I going to do with this information. Kill the Starks? If anything, wench, you should be quiet pleased that someone is taking an interest in you.”

 

“Go to sleep, Kingslayer.” she instructed, pulling a blanket over her body, “We walk at sunrise.”

 

He eyed her as she blew out the candle. It became dark once more. He frowned at how suddenly the wench’s interest at him was extinguished.

 

“What are your Lady’s words again? _Winter is coming_. I sincerely hope that you are going to she that blanket, wench.”

 

He shuffled closer, blind from the lack of light until her felt something cool on his throat. 

 

“Is that a dagger?” he asked innocently.

 

“Don’t you dare move an inch closer, Kingslayer. This is _final_.” she hissed. 

 

Although he knew she could not see, he held up his hands in solute. 

 

“I hope Renly is somewhere inside that thick skull of your’s. Or better yet: Castorson.” he taunted her. But she remained unchanged. The wench was learning to handle his constant insults and chatter.

 

For once that day, Jaime decided to give up. He fell back into the straw and shut his mouth.

 

“That was unworthy.” she said softly, “I apologise.” 

Perhaps one day, the world would be fuller of people like the Maid of Tarth. Attentive, soft and shy, but at the same time rugged, defiant and set in their ways. Perhaps there would one day people like the knights in the stories would walk the earth. People like the Brienne who had more honour than half the Lannister army thrown together. 

 

“Sweet dreams, wench.” he sighed. For the longest time, he listened to her breathing, slow and mechanical like some great bison. Eventually, the Kingslayer slipped past consciousness too.

 


End file.
